Live Fast
by the-kings-tail-fin
Summary: Exploring the life of Cal's son, Adam. NOTE: This story is meant to draw only minimal parallels to real world events. This is not a direct mapping of Carsverse tragedy to real world NASCAR tragedy by any means.
1. Trophies

"Can I come in yet?" Cal asks.

"No!" came the response.

He hears shuffling behind the closed door. An enthusiastic 'hrmph' as something thuds in the room beyond makes Cal smile. His kid had worked hard and long to get this far. Well, as hard as a young, newly manufactured adult could in his first few months of conscious life.

Adam's hard work had paid in dividends – it was clear there was a lot of Weathers mojo coursing through him. He's a natural winner, a good sport, and most of all, a kind soul.

And now, it's time.

"Alright," Adam calls through the door, his voice muffled. "Open sesame, old man!"

Cal lets out a laugh. "Old man? I ain't that old. I'm gonna come in there and give you some perspective, kiddo."

He pushes open the door and comes to a halt. The room is… clean. Yesterday it had been plastered with old, wrinkled posters. You would have never been able to tell who his favorite racer was, as he represented them _all_. But now the walls are barren, save a tasteful Dinoco neon clock, some genuine race memorabilia, and a new set of shelving. Heck, even the bed is made.

"Wow." Cal compliments him. "I don't think this room has been this clean since we moved in here – that was before your time. I'm impressed!"

"Yeah? I thought it was time."

Cal then realizes that Adam isn't actually in the room. His dampened voice is coming from the closet. Cal rolls his eyes and grins.

"Well, you gonna keep me hanging or what? Let me see it!"

The closet door nudges open to reveal blindingly bright neon orange paint, accented with white and blue – Dinoco blue. A styled number '45' and a genuine set of sticker Lightyear racing tires finish the design out nicely.

Cal's smile widens into a beam. It's contagious. To be honest, Adam hasn't stopped smiling since he left the paint booth uptown. This is it – this is what it feels like to be one step closer to his goal.

"Dang, son." Cal evaluates him, drives around him, and stops to stare again. "Dinoco looks good on you! The Piston Sippy Cup ain't ready for this."

"Yeah?" Adam looks down at his hood. "You don't think the color's too much?"

"You're a racecar, Adam, racecars don't care what sort of obnoxious colors they wear."

"Sponsors gotta market."

"I think it looks good, though. Suits you until you earn the blue for the Piston Cup."

Adam's brown eyes lift from his hood to his father. The pride between them is tangible. This is part of why he does what he does. Racing, making the family proud? It's everything.

"But, anyway," Adam redirects Cal's attention away from his new outfit. "Do you like what I did with the shelves? Thought they made a nice trophy case. For starters, anyway. I plan on adding more, obviously."

Cal looks beyond his son. The kid's makeshift trophy case isn't half bad, it's much better than what had once been a pile of awards and accolades collecting dust in the far corner of the room. Adam had polished them and organized them earlier – the most pertinent ones now boasted the forefront while the others created a busy backdrop.

"Still awful proud of that Dirt Bowl Series championship, kid," Cal says more seriously. "When the Piston Cup announced a dirt track series, I never thought the inaugural champion would be one of my own."

"Geez, dad, don't get all sentimental on me," Adam cringes a little. "We're the Weathers' – winning is what we do. That's one championship trophy, and there's more to come."

"I'm just sayin', looks nice up there with all the others. I'm proud of you."

Adam takes a moment and relives that victory. His entire family had been there – even his great uncle. The trophy shines as bright in his memories as it does on that shelf in the direct light.

It's going to take a lot more than tarnish to wipe that memory.


	2. The Piston Sippy Cup

February. Daytona. Three hundred laps launch the racers into the Piston Sippy Cup season. The weather is warm, their tires are even warmer as they run practice laps around the super speedway. For the first time in months, race fans have gathered to get their fill of loud engines, close racing, and united Piston Cup fan culture. It's long overdue.

"How was that time around?" Adam asks, three laps into a practice session that ends in five minutes.

"Two-tenths slower, the bottom hasn't come in yet," Cal replies. "Still pretty green out there."

"Alright, time to try the top. Couple more tries."

Two minutes are left. Adam makes as many laps as he can in the time remaining. Some are a few hundredths quicker, some a smidge slower, but mostly consistent. He doesn't clock the quick time of the day, but that's fine. Race dynamics in the draft can't be compared to lone practice sessions.

"Boy's sure got some talent, don't he?" Tex observes as his newly christened racer slides off the track and down pit row. "It's almost like he inherited it from someone."

"It's like he's learnt it from one of the best, ain't it?" Strip muses sarcastically.

Cal turns to confront his company. He looks down at them from his perch atop the pit box and shrugs.

"Ah, well, we're all…"

"Must be a McQueen fan," Tex interjects.

Cal sighs, his expression flattening.

"Really Tex? Even after I'm retired."

"Well, you ain't got no dirt background, do you? I see no Dirt Bowl trophies in your repertoire."

"It didn't exist back then!"

Strip smiles and rolls forward into the pit box as Adam comes to a stop.

"Good drive out there, Adam," he compliments his younger relative. "I like consistency like that."

"Thanks," Adam chirps. "I think we're a little tight in one and two, can't get very close to the wall. Oh, and uh, dad you never turned the channel on the radio – Tex is right you know."

"What?" Cal asks, his voice heightening an octave.

"I'm joking, you know that," Adam waves off his father's distress. "I mean, mostly, anyway – McQueen was a good dirt racer. He ran a couple Dirt Bowl races for fun, remember?"

"I remember you beating him."

"Once – he got me the other time."

"But still, you – "

Tex cut Cal off, knowing full well the boy could argue pointlessly until the end of time.

"Come on, boys, let's go back to the garage, see what we can fix, get you ready for the race. Final adjustments gotta be done in the next hour."

A track bar adjustment here, a change in tire pressure there, and one last mechanical validation means that the newly formed Team Dinoco, Sippy Cup edition, is officially ready to roll. Outside the garage, the media teams lurk, waiting for the highly anticipated racers of tomorrow to emerge.

"Alright, I'll meet you at the pits, got some stuff to do first," Cal tells Adam. "You just go out there, give the fans what they want, do some publicity, enjoy yourself. Then we're gonna win us a race."

"Yes, sir!" Adam revs his engine in a burst of enthusiasm.

Several cars turn to look at he drives out into the glinting sunlight, his orange paint illuminating the atmosphere around him. It's the start of something new, something positive.

"Never thought we'd have a stake in the Sippy Cup," Tex chuckles.

"Says the car who sponsors every single race in some capacity or another," Cal retorts.

"Once you go big time, you don't really think about going backwards, creating another team."

Strip joins the conversation in all seriousness before heading out to observe the action that's awaiting the track.

"I'm glad you're giving him a shot, Tex. Kid deserves it. Nice to not throw him right into the fire of the Cup series when he's so young."

"Like I did with you?" Tex smiles. "I don't regret doing that – but you're right. If we work Adam in at the right pace, he might even be able to outdo what you've done some day."

"That'd be something, wouldn't it?" Cal puts on his headset and starts for the pits after double-checking his radio frequencies.

"You ready for this Cal?" Strip asks him before he can get far.

"Ready for what, the race?"

"To crew chief. I expected more questions outta you."

Cal shrugs. "It's just talking racing, figuring out what he needs. It's a natural thing, I've raised him, I know how he is."

Strip nods and Cal continues on his way, skirting the mob of interviewers that are getting the latest scoop on the youngest Weathers' Piston Sippy Cup debut. The older cars stay back and watch the scene unfold. It doesn't seem so long ago that they were starting fresh on the main circuit, experiencing these same things.

"What do you think, top ten?" Tex asks.

"Hmm." Strip ponders it a moment. "I'm gonna say top five. I think he can do it."

Tex laughed.

"Over confident, as usual."


	3. Progress

Sixth place finish at Daytona. Eighth at Atlanta. The westward swing brings out a variety of top tens for the accomplished dirt racer. Even a DNF at Rocker Arms International Speedway doesn't bog the team down. They're winners even if they haven't nailed down a first place trophy yet. Team Dinoco is on fire.

It's a P2 finish after a late race restart at Dover one night that confirms everything the team already knew. It's in their future.

"The short tracks behave a lot more like the dirt ones," Adam says one day, back at team HQ. "I can really pitch forward and lean through the corners at an angle. If tires aren't something to consider, anyhow."

They're going over the race recording from the previous weekend. Half a car length separated them from Victory Lane that night.

"You think that if you'd kept your tires in better shape you could have had more grip and done better?" Cal asks.

It's the only thing he can think of. Everything else seemed perfect – track temp, tire pressure, wedge adjustments. Adam never once complained about being too tight or too loose.

"Nah, that dude just outdrove me is all," Adam shakes himself. "I got up there that far because I was dirt-trackin' it hard around the top – he was just putting together better laps from the get go."

"Hmm." Cal can't help but frown and continue to analyze every possible situation, if there was anywhere he could have improved.

"Don't worry about it, dad, it's okay," Adam says quietly. "We're not even halfway through the season – and I'm a rookie, there's lot of room for improvement."

"Yeah, yeah, I know – I just want you to get your first win, you know? And to see you come that close – it eats me up a little. But, then again, I didn't win a race until my second year, so…"

A smile spreads across Adam's face. He thinks back to those nights he spent around a campfire with his family. They would tell racing stories until the cows came home, and once, Strip got to hounding on Cal because he finished second so many times before actually winning a race. What made it funny was that back in the day, he'd done the same thing. It's practically a Weathers tradition.

"Gotta have the win be within grasp before you can take it," Adam reminds him. "Second place builds character, yeah?"

"Ha! Yeah, I guess you could call it that."

Adam lets out a yawn and blinks a couple times. There's barely been any free time to rest since the hauler returned to base. The team immediately started focusing on the next race. Somewhere on the other side of the complex, the Piston Cup team was doing much of the same sort of work.

"I'm gonna go for a drive, wake myself up, is that okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, that's fine, take a breather."

Dinoco Racing headquarters had been a favorite place of his in his time as a small youth. One of the first memories Adam can easily recall is driving around the front lobby in all that wide, open space, surrounded by racing memorabilia and giant plaques and displays of all sorts that transcended the ages of Piston Cup racing.

"Still gets to you, don't it?"

Adam turns and greets the familiar voice.

"Long time, no see, Roger. How's that retirement life? Had to replace any joints yet?"

"Oof, straight for the old man jabs!" Wheeler feigns offense through a genuine smile. "It's nice actually. Got a trip to Aspen planned next month. Getting out of this hot weather we're having."

"They should build a track in the mountains out there, that'd be cool! Think of the differences in air/fuel mixtures and how that would translate to power outputs."

Roger shakes himself in admiration and disbelief.

"You don't think about anything other than racing, do you? Not ever. I swear, all you Weathers boys are the same."

Adam waves his great uncle's old crew chief off in dismissal. "Don't know what you're talking about, man. But anyway – what are you doing here?"

"Just came to visit. Been a while since I saw you guys."

"I'm getting ready to go see what the Cup team is up to. Sometimes I'm not sure if Strip's the one training Cruz, or if she's training him. There's a bit of a disconnect around the whole technology thing."

Roger lets out a soft chuckle. "Maybe he should come to Aspen with me. I'll teach him how to ski."

"Death by snow mishap – never saw that one coming."

"Oh come on now, give him some credit."

"The dude cannot drive on snow. At all. I've seen it."

Roger continues to laugh. "Ah, it's good to have some fresh young oil around here. Gives us old guys some hope for the future."

Behind them, the front doors open. Adam pays no attention to it, as it's a public space and cars come through all the time. There's almost always a tour going on.

"Looks like you have company," Roger says as he turns to leave. "Enjoy it, rockstar."

Roger takes off as if it's no one's business and heads straight for the workshop in the back to catch up with the boys.

Adam hears whispers and the sound of tiny tires squeaking on the polished floor. He turns to see a family with two small children looking at him from the entrance. The small cars' eyes are wide with awe and excitement. Adam immediately feels pride and purpose swell with him yet again. The fans make racing what it is – without them, there's no him doing what he loves.

"Hi there!" he offers. "Welcome to Dinoco Racing HQ."

The kids sit motionlessly in awe at his welcoming persona. One of them even had little '45' stickers on his side. The other, a '51'.

"Ah, you're a Ramirez, fan, aren't you?" he asks the little girl.

She makes a little squeaky noise and nods sharply.

Adam looks to the boy.

"And you, you like the 45? Hmm, I wonder where he is?"

The boy grins and attempts to hide himself behind his mother's front left tire.

"Oh, come on now, Jimmy, don't be shy!" the mother coaxes. "Say hi!"

"Sorry about them," the father apologizes, "they're not super social. We just thought we'd come and take the tour and let them see the place."

"Yeah, of course!" Adam backs up and gestures for them to follow. "Come on, I'm looking for something to do over a break anyway."

The lady at the front desk watches Adam guide the visitors toward the racing heritage museum and opens her mouth to object. There's a tour in half an hour that a certified tour guide will be giving.

"I got this, Shelby, no worries," Adam tells her. "Take the tour fee or whatever out of my pay if you have to. Just let me do this for the fans this once. They'll love it."

"Alright, just keep them in safe areas – no deep garage adventures." The warning in her tone bounces right off of him.

"Sure thing, thanks Shelb."

Upon rejoining his tour group in the museum, he takes a deep breath.

"Alright folks, since we're a small group today, I'm gonna show you _everything_. But first! This is where I used to like to come hang out – this is where I realized I was a _racer_."


	4. Burn

"I want that lobster, dad."

"You're allergic to shellfish, Adam. I don't know if the clinic is prepared for an allergic reaction."

"Think about it though, it would be hilarious. No one would see it coming. 'Oh no! Racer down! Come help!' Meanwhile the lobster clicks his claws in sweet victory. Racecars: 0, Lobster: 1"

Cal sighs and casts an exasperated look toward the lobster tank in Victory Lane. Every track has its own unique thing, and sure, the seafood was great on the east coast, but really? Winning at New Hampshire and getting a lobster thrown on your hood are synonymous.

"You just keep in mind, you're still on my insurance plan," Cal warns.

"Only for another month," Adam smirks. "My manufacture date is coming up, yeah? Then I can be my own man!"

Before Cal gets a chance to pitch his "you are still under my roof young man" argument, they're called to the pits. It's the day before the race, practice and qualifying only. Every car is trying to perfect their setup with their eye on the prize – that darned golden sippy cup in the shape of a piston. It's the obvious thing for a grown car to yearn after. With half the season behind them, the championship doesn't seem so far away.

"Alright, ready to punch your ticket straight to the emergency room?" Cal asks, situating himself atop the pit box.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Adam confirmed, settling evenly onto all four tires.

"Right, Hampshire. Land of bisque and chowder. It's a short track – "

"Is it though..."

"It races like a short track," Cal reinforces. "And it's flat. Sound like dirt?"

"Sounds like a piece of cake." Adam shakes himself out before settling again. "I'm feeling good about this one. We're gonna win. Today's the day."

"That's my boy," Cal smirks. "Let's put down some good laps, yeah? Let's shoot for a pole."

Two practice laps in the books and one of the other rookies slips and skids into the wall coming out of turn four. It's a caution, no surprise. The racers on the track cruise back to their teams while the cleanup crews do their thing.

"How's it feelin' so far?" Cal asks. "You ain't said much."

Adam wiggles around and feels himself out once more.

"It feels _great_. Like, real good. Maybe a hair tight going into turn one? But it went away by the second lap. So weird. We've never got anything this right before, not from the start."

"Yeah, well, we'll see if it lasts." Cal sits down lower on his tires, relaxing. "Track will probably change at dark, but if we start out good, I think we can make the changes needed when the time comes."

"Agreed."

Ten minutes pass and the oil spill is cleaned up. Team Dinoco decides it's best to wait until a couple teams make some laps first before getting back out there. Precedence states that being the first one to run through the speedy dry compound left on the track is never beneficial. Soon it is dispersed enough to try another run. There's only ten minutes of practice remaining.

"Quick time!" Cal exclaims as Adam crosses the finish line for the third or fourth time.

"Really?" Adam asks, slowing and aiming for pit row the next time around.

"Yeah, three one-thousandths quicker than the 28."

"He's been stomping us all year. You heard it here first, guys, today's our day."

Cal chuckles and looks down as Adam comes to a halt in front of him. That bright orange paint exudes nothing but confidence as the sun glints off it, creating its own sort of sunset.

It's hard, being a crew chief and a father at the same time, Cal thinks. He can feel himself swell with pride at the same time he needs to give some constructive criticism. He can feel angry at an undesired outcome and also be thankful no real harm has been done. Maybe, after this year, he'd let someone else do the crew chiefing for Adam. It's good for a team to be close, but this close? You could argue both the pros and cons.

Not long after the practice sessions end, the sun dips below the horizon for the first time since the race teams arrived on premise. The coolness in the air is a refreshing shower of energy that returns to the track at a completely new level. The racers are ready to give it all they have. There's a pole position to be won for tomorrow's race.

"Turn that quick time into a pole award, kiddo," Cal advises. "You've got it in the bag."

Adam casts a wink in his crew's direction and slides out onto the track after the number 28 racer finishes his qualifying run. That's the time to beat. It's slower than the quick time earlier. Piece of cake.

The track is definitely cooler. The stickiness is gone that held him to the pavement earlier. Adam uses his getting-up-to-speed lap to test the limits of what his worn practice tires can handle. Hmm. Maybe that slower qualifying time the 28 put out was more reasonable than he'd figured.

"Alright, here we go! Give it all you got."

Cal's words come crisply through the radio. This is it!

"For the lobster!" comes the battle cry from the track.

Cal chuckles as Adam pushes himself into turns one and two. Everything is looking great! At this rate, they'll match the 28's time on the first lap. And second laps have been trending on the faster end.

The orange racer pegs it down the back straightaway. Cal listens to the sound of his son's engine pulling, searching for every last bit of horsepower it can find. It's rejuvenating, he recalls the feeling…

That's the braking point. That's the mark on the wall that signals to racers to slow for the turn and –

"Stuck – stuck!"

Cal whips his full attention to turn three. Adam isn't slowing down. His engine is still straining at its limits as the track begins to bend and come to an end. There's a wall.

Throttle. Stuck?

"Brake!" Cal screams.

His scream is lost in the screeching of metal on concrete. It's fast and loud. Sheet metal bends and crumples and explodes outward. Something heavy falls to the ground and groans against the pavement. A silent trickle of fluid begins to run down the track. A spark.

An explosion.

Cal doesn't remember how he got there. There are scrapes down his sides and cars are trying to pull him backwards.

"You can't do that!" he yells at them.

Do what? What are they doing? What is he doing?

All he sees is a smoldering skeleton of a car as the smoke from the fire extinguishers fades. Brown, burnt, peeling vinyl is coming off the body. There's shattered glass everywhere. Cal can feel it under his tires. You shouldn't be able to see straight through a car.

But that's exactly what he's doing. He's staring through the smoking body of the only car he loved as a son. There's broken window glass under his tires and a pool of deadly, flammable liquid spilling out of the bottom of a hunk of molten, tormented steel. Lights are flashing, cars are yelling, and Cal's vision is blurry from some sort of wet stuff streaming from his windshield down his fenders. He can't feel anything. There's pain, numbing pain. That's all.

An ambulance and a tow truck begin to move the body. The shrieking cry of raw metal digging into old pavement pierces the air. Cal lunges and begs them to stop. A security team holds him down as the cleanup crew begins to relocate the torn, soulless figure.

Adam is gone.

Cal feels his own body give out.


	5. Legacy

They've been sitting silently side by side for what feels like hours. In all reality, it probably has been hours, but no one's bothered to notice. It's still daylight outside. The weather hasn't changed. The same fresh flowers adorn the polished headstone. Perhaps it's only been a few moments.

It doesn't matter.

Cal continues to stare at the mound of freshly turned dirt. Nearby, the ground still hasn't completely flattened from the last loss. Too much, too soon. Way too soon.

Eventually, Strip takes a breath. He hadn't spoken much since Cal returned home, though he'd remained by his nephew's side nearly the entire time. Most of his recent words were due diligence at the funeral. But sometimes words just aren't good enough. And more often, aren't needed at all.

"Y'know, Cal, sometimes I wonder – what if I'd chosen to do somethin' else."

Cal remains silent. He shifts his gaze slightly to the left, in the direction of his uncle, but doesn't make eye contact. He cannot escape the sight of the grave.

"What if I'd skipped the racing scene altogether and done something normal. Could've been a farmer. Could've been a businesscar. Anything. We'd all have been a lot safer."

"Don't." Cal whispers. "It's not your fault."

His voice is rough and squeaky from lack of use. It hurts. It's an extension of that fiery hollow that's still surging, wide open and vulnerable in his soul. It's so raw and full of coals he sometimes questions if he didn't literally have his engine ripped from his body that night.

"I know," Strip responds quietly. "Things like this aren't anyone's fault. But I still wonder."

Cal feels another wave of emotion coming. He can't seem to run out of tears, no matter how hard he tries. There's too much history, too many loved ones in this plot of land. The newest addition seems not only unnecessary, but insulting.

"How'd you do it?" Cal asks, a new stream of tears running down his right front quarter panel. "When Aunt Lyn passed, how'd you move on?"

Strip sits silently for a long time. The wind starts to pick up, carrying a chill on it as the sky begins to darken. Maybe they have been here all day.

He casts a glance to his left at the mound of earth nearby that hadn't yet settled back into place.

"You don't really move on," he answers honestly. "Some days are fine, some are better than others. Some days hurt just like today. You just… sorta learn to accept it. We're still alive for a reason. It's hard to see sometimes but… it gets better. Eventually you start to remember the positives again. All the happy times. That's what keeps you goin', those memories."

Cal remains still. His mind cannot perceive a world without grief. He knows he should listen to what his uncle says, but the words are just sounds in the wind.

"I reckon this is different, though," Strip adds on as an afterthought. "Losing someone before their time ain't never right."

"What do I do?"

Strip looks over at his nephew. He recognizes the anguish in the younger car's eyes. He's lost and alone and experiencing something no car should ever have to.

"Whatever you have to. Take your time. I'll stay with you until you're ready to start new again."

Cal sniffles and catches his breath.

"Thank you."

* * *

The Weathers' take the remainder of the Piston Cup season off. It's the first time in years that neither of them are at the tracks in some capacity. McQueen kindly takes over as interim crew chief for the Cup series while his friends take the time to restructure their lives.

Cal gets to work on a memorial that'll span generations. There's a new seasonal award that's given out before the Piston Sippy Cup championship in his honor. The Adam's Legacy award goes to the car that's demonstrated the most promise throughout the season but remains winless. Sometimes misfortune befalls us all and our potential is the only thing that proves who we are.

The second annual Dirt Bowl championship is held in Adam's honor. There's no profit from the event – all income less operational fees is donated to a camp for aspiring, newly manufactured racers – the very same organization where Cal came across a young Adam in need of a home all those months ago. The Home for Young Racers is now able to provide top of the line (age-appropriate) training gear and experiences on top of the work that is already being done to find them suitable families.

Cal's never quite the same. No one ever is after something like that. But he returns to the racing scene the following season and takes up the helm of Team Dinoco at the Cup level, relieving Strip of his crew chief duties and giving him a higher degree of freedom in his so-called 'retirement'. He and Cruz are a great team. It's therapeutic for everyone involved. Success comes and they reap the rewards.

Every year, though, before the team heads out to New Hampshire, Cal makes a special trip to the family gravesite. He updates Adam on everything that's going on – like how well Cruz is racing and what she's learned, what crazy adventures Tex keeps sending Strip on as an ambassador for Dinoco, and so on. Cal knows Adam is listening, he's out there somewhere, as true blue, racing born and bred as they come.

"I'll get you that stupid lobster this year, kiddo. You'll see."


End file.
